The Lay of the Parnassan Boar
by Choonz
Summary: A taster to whet your appetite for my forthcoming novel 'House of the Red Flame', concerning the fall of Troy (details to follow). This tale, drawn from it properly belongs in the Odyssey, and works as a standalone.


**The Lay of the Parnassan Boar**

Eyes closed, the Man of Twists and Turns took inventory of his body. His torso and the ropy muscles of his arms were traced with an intricate calligraphy of small scars, and there was a puckered weal of an old spear wound on his hip. His left knee ached, tender, the cartilage damaged by overuse, the rigours of his active life.

His calves and thighs had started to tighten up with the lactic acid by-products, gamy and knotted despite his daily regimen of stretching, and there wasn't a whole lot he could do about that now. Still less for that old white scar, traversing the outside of his left calf. It reminded Odysseús of the day when he became a man in truth.

No man had gifted him that, remenisced the son of Laértēs. It was a wound of the chase, not battle – that ferocious pastime of noble men! – dealt him by the baleful, red-eyed Parnassan Boar.

* * *

 _Makhos_ waits for no man, my dear sons! You must seek it out where it hides, stalking it with consideration, like a dangerous wild animal – and where necessary, even against the cautious counsel of the wise. So it was for Laértēs' callow son – a rawboned youth of twelve summers, stealing away from father's hold to join a great hunting expedition!

A singularly brawny boar had been about terrorising the lands about Mount Parnassós, gorging itself upon the farmers' crops, rooting and causing widespread destruction of property – trampling down wooden fences and overturning dikes of stacked stone. It had driven off and scattered the timid local people, and even devoured some amongst them; a whole family living alone – man, wife and infant child – in their very home!

At that time, the most celebrated hunter of all, Laértēs, lay abed – a spear-wound kept him under his coverlets, that red-blooded cattle-rustler and stealer of sheep having found a warm and warranted welcome as he prowled about an alien town on the Akhaian mainland intent on no good whatsoever – an insatiable wolf, seeing what he might carry off in the dead of night!

That Íōnian man, apprehended by armed and vigilant sentinels, was forced to fight his way free, killing two Akhaian warriors and gravely wounding another with his gleaming spear – the rustic Boar-Killer readily turned to the purpose of manslaughter! But some worthy Argive gentleman had served him in his turn – a spear through the lung – and Laértēs had been half-helped, half-carried to his red-beaked ship between two broad-shouldered Ithákan _dorytai_ , a froth of blood upon lips.

Six long weeks, Laértēs had lain in bed, propped up in his coverlets, hacking and coughing up blood. Six long weeks, loving son had fetched and carried like a helot, bringing the old man soup that he had prepared with his own two hands – a stout broth of lentils, barley and the flesh of boiled fowls, staff of life – for Odysseús would not entrust sacred task to another.

 _Old man._ Such he was, young Odysseús realised with dawning horror. Greying at the temples, his mahogany skin seamed, salt-weathered, Laértēs, hale, was hardy. Manly, in a bluff, hearty manner that set at naught a delicate _éphēbos_ ' youthful bloom. But ailing, parchment-pale, wheezing, his great teller's voice become dry aspiration – there was mortality, frailty, in enfeebled father, and this affrighted Odysseús – filled him with revulsion, too.

 _What if he dies?_ That thought was blasphemy, but it would not go away from him. There had to be a man of the house – and Odysseús, only son of a line of only sons, truly acknowledged that awesome burden for the first time. His, to stand surety for his mother and sisters, for his _oikia_ – the bondsmen and thralls of his household. If not he, then who other?

* * *

In the lamented absence of the mighty spearman, Laértēs, a hunting-party had been mustered to scare up that man-slaughtering wild boar and slay him wherever he could be found. It was led by Odysseús' greatfather, Autólykos – his mother's father, in point of fact. Laértēs bore little love for his bride's father, deeming him _'the most accomplished thief and perjurer in the known world!'_

Hearing these words, Odysseús had been filled with quiet admiration for Autólykos, 'the wolf himself' – coming from Laértēs' discerning lips, this was quite an accolade, not one lightly bestowed!

The son of Laértēs was filial in all respects save one – forbidden from visiting his maternal grandfather, he did so anyway, for the love he bore that horrid old man, and to emulate him in _areté_ , deeming his grandfather's household a kind of finishing-school for Argive gentlemen – in toping hard liquor like a laurel-crowned God, and all manner of roguery and subtle _tékhnē!_

That snapping wolf, Autólykos, had scared up his tribe of sons – trueborn and bastard – and the manservants of his household, commissioning them to bring a great quantity of unwatered wine in skin, and a deal of provisions – not base barley, staff of life, but good red meat! That _lókhos_ of ambushers swore a mighty oath not to rest until they tracked down the boar to its bolt-hole and brought it low by means of spear or the crooked bow. They swore by swift-footed Hērmēs – god of rogues, who watches over their artful mischief with much fatherly amusement!

Odysseús, watching his father waste and wane, had been seized by a desperate determination. Later, he would better understand what wild Gods seized heart. Back then, feeling drowned reason – like the sweet mead.

All Odysseús desired in that moment was to unveil himself a man like his father, godlike Laértēs – a singularly cold-blooded killer of animals and human beings, who are the most dangerous prey of all! – else, failing, fall from earth. The youthful Talespinner was one who aspired towards high _areté_ , having listened enthralled to his father holding forth, erudite as any rhapsodewho sings in a king's high hall. Those well-sung words, spellbinding, held son in thrall.

Laértēs' tales put high-hearted son on his mettle. Not for bloody battle, not then – there was no _hóplon_ of bronze that Odysseús could hope to bear, slender as he was, lusty and green-limbed as a pliant sycamore sapling, which must twist before every wind. But his _heart_ was not for bending, no!

Odysseús could not kill a man – not yet. Not one who knew what he was about anyway – a Man of Bronze in his panoply. But a wild boar – _that_ was a foe he could face, spear in hand, and earn a manly mantle of renown!

Odysseús had seen his father's stockmen, leading their herds – gluttonous pigs, shepherded by nothing more than a swineherd's slender staff. Seen them slaughtered, too – hung by the heels and drained of their thick crimson blood. All in a day's work to menial men. That was all a wild boar was. A pig! Bigger and nastier than these domesticated animals, surely, but nothing for any _real_ man to fear!

Unwarranted, Father's well-tendered words sprang readily to mind: _Of all animals, there is none more crafty, nor ferocious – save man._ With them, apprehension – which Odysseús quelled savagely. He could _do_ this. More, he _would_ do this! For his honour and his house, and to show world that one man, at least, dwelled beneath Father's roof – come what may!

* * *

The huntsmen were setting out one frost-rimed morn when Odysseús crossed their path. He had his father's auspicious spear with him, that long-shadowed lance – a full head taller than red-haired Odysseús was this braw _dóru_ , for it was the weapon of a man of mighty stature, fitted for war and the chase. But Laértēs' black bow was beyond son's coltish strength – as it was likewise for any other man save the King himself. Most well-made warriors, even haughty men of birth, fed on hearty red meat and trained in arms, could not so much as string crooked Ekēbólos – let alone beardless boys!

Had his purpose been in doubt, it was no longer as these full-grown men, attired as handsomely as living Gods, clapped Odysseús on the back, commending his courage. "The cock on him, already!" genial grandfather announced to all assembled, with great pride, cheeks flushed with the ruby wine. "My grandson must surely grow to be a mighty man! 'Man of Anger', thus I name him true – Oulixēs!"

 _Ye even-handed Gods_ , Odysseús prayed, _heed words, and make them true!_ Little recking that those wild words, heaped upon head, were as much curse as blessing.

For good or for ill, the son of Krónos heard the prayers of pure-hearted Odysseús, and the three Fates attended upon the words of ancient Autólykos!

These sons of Hērmēs toasted Odysseús with great solemnity, and he pledged them in return, like a true man of courtesy. He matched them, dram for dram, toping like Bákkhos Liberator – his handsome head buzzing like a beehive, his breast bursting with manly feeling. Foremost strode he with great daring, through brush and bracken, into the wilding wood where the black boar was wont to lay in wait. His spear shouldered, no care or caution concerned heart.

* * *

Some men are choleric in the wine. Mead maddens or makes maudlin. Men, ay – and wild beasts too! The feral Parnassan Boar had gorged upon fallen fruit, fermented – and he was in any wise an animal of singularly foul temper in the first place! Head pounding dully, he awakened from a black drunk, startled by some sudden clamour, snorting, heavy heart tolling within breast. The boar had been roused by the hunt, hallooing through the wood – horns of wild kine winded strident, the incautious tramp of men beating the bracken – and he was not minded to withdraw, no! Not for men such as these!

These men dared come roust _him_ out from his sleep! They actually thought to make _sport_ of him, to hunt him! The audacity of it!

The boar was minded of the forbidden taste of men's blood – a delectable draught! Heretofore, he had harried humans with impunity, who had no recourse but to flee his savagery, else appease his hostile hunger with their very flesh! Men were nothing to fear. These, least of all – for they had cast off ennobling reason, meeting beast as beast in a contest of equals! He, on the other hand, had ingested something of their sagacity with white corpse-meat, stripped from human thigh-bones with his splintered, yellow teeth.

His sensitive snout snuffed the air, tasting. Man-flesh, more delectable than any truffle! Another cloying aroma, redolent, rising above, richer, redder – minding him of the decaying fruit, the cause of his wretched condition. Head pounding. Guts aching.

Black anger, welling. No doubt it had been these treacherous humans that had poisoned his belly. Rendered him logy and stupid, shambling about on his stubby legs, blundering through scratching bushes and bashing into trees, until he passed out. Interfering men were _always_ to blame!

Here, now, was one of the wretches! A man-cub rather, pale and skinny and somewhat the worse for wear! The smell of him sickens the Parnassan Boar, causing his wide-splayed teeth to grind grimly together in ire, eyes narrowing into tongues of red flame. One of those left-handed poisoners, for sure!

Rage – red imperative – overwhelms primitive reason:

KILL. EAT.

* * *

The Parnassan Boar, frothing at the maw, teeth champing together in ravenous anticipation, explodes from cover, from behind concealing brakes of hazel, splintering the saplings and twigs asunder in his violent passing. An infernal thing, stinking, black-bristling.

Odysseús hears its rage before he sees it, and that saves his life. He is already turning upon heel, hindbrain awakened to danger before his conscious mind registers the shift of shade, the hellacious rising shadow. Shouldered spear falling to arms as slowly as a sundial's shadow stretches from noon to sunset.

Late light slants through a phálanx of larch. The leaves in drifts crunching underfoot as he turns burn in forge-fire hues – bronze, blood and copper, crimson and cadmium. It is beautiful, he registers – this instant, which exists apart from the hunter in his horripilation. A quiet perfection.

Reality bearing down on him like a landslide.

Eyes widening in alarm, Odysseús does not think to shout for aid. Were his fellow-fools at his back, they would not have time to aid him. This is on him, and him alone.

This is no mere pig, Odysseús understands straightaway. This is nothing a mere man can kill – let alone a stupid, wine-sotted boy, as he truly is! The earth with her broad paths yawning agape, a chthonic Titán, lurching up at him out of the reeking pit, stinking of sweat and old, congealed blood. Smiling avuncularly with hearty hunger. Fleshly lips skinned back from bared teeth – yellowed chisels mounted haphazard in a splintered, frothing maw.

That is the worst of it. This thing is _aware_. It hates. It _knows_. It relishes his fear and means to feed on it. On him.

This is his death, barrelling down upon him.

Yet even as he soils himself in fear, Odysseús remembers his lessons. Sweet reason saves him. Reason and his father's rede: _You cannot kill him. But your spear can._

Odysseús had not understood those words, safe beside hearth. Not then. Now he did.

His muscles slow as pouring honey – yet he grounds spear, aided by the weapon's admirable length – the lizard-killing _sauroter_ bedding into the loam, musty autumn leaves and soft earth rank as stripling arms brace the Boar-Killer, aiming that lissom laurel-leaf point towards breast of foe.

Crouches, braced, as his father showed him – a deeply-rooted stance, feet a shoulder-width apart. It is instinct, something deeper than memory or mere imitation. This is a hunter's heritage. Something in the blood. Odysseús is keening, an awful moan that forces itself unwilling through bared teeth, and that he is unaware of. Hands, white-knuckled, knotting around haft of spear.

Life and death drawing together at their asymptote. Joy and staring horror. The _kairós_ moment.

Odysseús is incidental to the impact. The sturdy ash – Parnassan ash for the Parnassan Boar – flexing like a willow withy, all but stripping the skin from his palms. The black destroyer filling the horizon of his vision as it impales itself – driving the spike of the _sauroter_ half a foot into the earth like the blow of a hammer, before blade bites breast, and the broad bronze head, spatulate, does what it is intended for, two foot of the spear disappearing into that cavernous chest in a heartbeat.

The boar keeps coming – snarling, snapping. Those tusks! Long and keen as a _kopís_ , they will rip open his belly as the beast roots, strewing his guts about. A foul way to die, that every hunter dreads – burning many fatty thigh-bones wrapped in pork crackling to Ártemis of the Wilds, to avert such a fate. Odysseús – hunt-virgin, war-virgin – has never made such a sin-offering in his all-too brief life, though he has been present at many. A fact that he is only too aware of in this instant!

The spear writhes in his hands like a silver fish that a boy twists from stream with his bare hands. It is all he can do to hold it level – nose to nose with this wild and ravenous animal, its hot breath foul upon face. The black boar is not even slowed by the spear and in its gnashing transport of rage, does not even feel it.

Odysseús cannot hold him at bay.

The boy is hurled backwards onto the flat of his back, the boar pole-vaulting past him, a yard of hard ash struck through its ribcage. Over and over it tumbles, crashing through the undergrowth, bowling through bushes and fronded bracken, snapping sapling trees in its ruin.

Silence.

* * *

Odysseús draws a shuddering breath. The fact of his own survival incomprehensible to him. A mistake of the Moirai, soon to be rectified, it must surely be! His fine clothing fouled, clammy sweat sticking shirt to back. Cuprous hair standing upon end.

Then to his terror, a horrid scrabbling, and thrashing, and an inhuman screeching that is both piteous and the apotheosis of rage assails the ears of the son of Laértēs.

He is a dead man, and he knows it. Nothing capable of making so much noise is ready for Hádēs' halls – or whatever nether hell is reserved for such an abomination!

Odysseús is on his feet, sharp _mákhaira_ in trembling hand, wild-eyed as he turns towards his enemy. The heavy knife risible as a weapon against the devourer. Teeth bared in defiance.

Silence – then a ripping of life's fabric, the web woven by the Moirai – Klotho, who spins, Lakhesis, who draws out, and of course, Atropos the Unturning, who severs. That mortal warp and weft, branch and bough of bush, smashed flat under the boar's passing, else uprooted and rent asunder by the black beast's charge.

It is slower now. A clumsy juggernaut, the spear in its breast wagging like the tail of a faithful hound, snagging on saplings – but the boar is still far faster than any man afoot, and as inexorable as Death and Hádēs.

At the last instant, Odysseús dives to his right. He is not nearly swift enough. Graceful in its tumultuous passing, the boar tosses his jowly head, a razored tusk raking the youth. A line of white fire traces his leg – knee to ankle – then the boar is past him, ploughing furious furrow through the undergrowth. There it runs headlong into a tall beech tree, broad of bole, in forthright rage refusing to turn aside from this most obdurate of obstacles.

The impact breaks the beast's thick neck. It grunts, coughs, turns over – and finally lies still.

Odysseús lies still. Everything is suddenly very bright and very clear to him.

* * *

Some time passes while he lies bleeding. There is very little pain. He is incurious concerning his wound – a septic gash that needs both cleaning and binding before he is exsanguinated. It is a thing of little moment compared to the epiphany that holds him rapt.

Presently, his comrades find him and attend upon him. A distant matter, as his grandfather scrapes out his gash with a sharp knife, and washes it with wine vinegar. Smears it with cool honey and wraps his calf from ankle to knee in clean white linen. The agèd hands of Autólykos are gentle even as he sets rough red tongue to purpose, a two-edged _skiphos_ excoriating Man and God. There are tears in the old man's eye.

Odysseús bears it all in equanimity. He does not make a sound. Indeed, he is barely aware of it. All is ephemeral. Even the dew moistening eye of Autólykos, the very wolf, does not move his heart.

He has the manhood he craves. Having put away all childish things in the gaining of it, the glory of the moment signifies nothing. Odysseús has attained the Ēlýsion Fields and found them barren green wastes, inhabited by no living thing.

Strong-thewed Aesimús and the rest of his cousins gather round, raising his name to the God's ear! Odysseús forces himself to endure their badinage, perfunctorily returning their rough courtesies. They are less than nothing to him – piss and wind! What are the worth of a fool's praises, tendered for the rash actions of another fool? Odysseús has eschewed the boy he once was, in any case. He knows him not.

His grandsire has no more to teach him, either.

They offer him wine. He declines it. Eventually, they understand he has withdrawn from them in spirit, if not in body, and leave him to his own counsel, which he keeps on the long trip home.

* * *

Odysseús has made his sacrifice, and this holy hecatomb is propitious – the Father of Gods and Men finds it both full and sufficient. The son of Laértēs returns to find his father risen from his sick-bed, grumpily hobbling around the homestead, hacking and coughing. When he hears the tale, his father is wroth.

As soon as he is able, Laértēs beats him, in the same fashion that he does every task he has set his mind on – thoroughly and dispassionately, and to the best of his considerable abilities.

Odysseús bears his sire's blows, knowing that in them is love: Trueborn sons are disciplined by their fathers, where bastards and by-blows are let be – which is not to their advantage. Life and the Gods will scourge those unfortunates later, without mercy.

He stands there, straight backed and patient under the blows of Laértēs' clenched fists, and does not stir, like a graven idol of olive wood. Like a righteous man who faces the justice of the magistrate for some past error that he has long since atoned for.

Eventually, Laértēs has done. He eyes his son sourly, but curiously, finding him changed and not understanding wherein lay the difference.

Odysseús turns wearily, dragging his _khlamús_ of Túrian purple about him as he walks from the room. His father's words halt him in the doorway.

"Why did you do it, son? Glory?"

"Fear." Odysseús' tenor rings clear as a bell.

"And now?"

"I am reconciled," the young man told the mighty hunter Laértēs.

Laértēs raises an eyebrow at that. "Glad am I to hear it," he avers. "A boy left my house. A man returns to it."


End file.
